“Onwards!” Kor’sarro bellowed. Even as the White Scars redoubled their efforts, the enemy did likewise, as determined as they to grind their foes to blood and gristle. A bolt-round, discharged at nigh point-blank range, struck Kor’sarro’s shoulder guard and ricocheted across his cheek, gouging a deep wound from which a torrent of blood surged before his superhuman physiology staunched the bleeding, the fluid solidifying across his chest armour. Another White Scar died at Kor’sarro’s side as a blast from a plasma pistol vaporised his head, the decapitated body falling to its knees before the killer and toppling forwards with a mighty crash.
“For the primarch!” Kor’sarro roared, Moonfang singing as it hewed through the raised boltgun of a traitor who levelled the weapon directly at his face. The rounds in the weapon’s magazine detonated explosively as the blade scythed through them, blowing the traitor’s arm clean off at the elbow. Kor’sarro drove Moonfang into the Alpha Legionnaire’s guts, tearing the blade upwards and cutting the warrior’s torso in two.
A blinding white beam of light lanced out from somewhere on the steps behind Kor’sarro. Though he had seen the sight a hundred times before, on a dozen battlefields the length and breadth of the galaxy, Kor’sarro had never failed to be awed by the power the Storm Seer Qan’karro could call to being to strike down the Emperor’s foes. The white light fell upon the mass of enemies and a cluster of Alpha Legionnaires boiled inside their power armour, great torrents of greasy, foul-smelling vapour spilling from emergency vents before the suits clattered, empty of anything except bubbling sludge, to the ground.
A moment later, a hail of black darts forged from the raw stuff of the warp made real split the air towards Qan’karro. The Storm Seer threw up a hand and a rippling shield of pure energy appeared in the air before him. The black darts struck the shield and shattered into a million pieces, leaving Qan’karro miraculously unharmed. And then, the Storm Seer set about a deadly duel with the enemy sorcerer from which only one could possibly emerge alive.
Offering up a brief prayer to the primarch that Qan’karro would prevail, the Master of the Hunt turned back towards his foes. Even as another wave of blue-green-armoured traitor Space Marines came on, Kor’sarro caught sight of a pair of mighty black pinions rearing in the air beyond the enemy, before the very statue of the Emperor Triumphant.
There was his foe, the object of the hunt. Kor’sarro threw himself into the melee.
He was the hunter, and they were his prey.
With a grunt, Captain Shrike tore the last of the vile, bat-winged gargoyle-cherubs in two, and made to rejoin his Assault Marines. The broken bodies of at least a dozen of his brothers were scattered across the ground below, a number of the disgusting creatures attempting to drag them off into the shadows. More of his Assault squads had touched down in the nave, yet the fight in the vaults had dispersed them across a wide area. Even now, many of the Raven Guard were locked in battle against the closest of the Alpha Legion, and they were massively outnumbered.
Squatting upon the shoulder of the towering statue, Shrike prepared to engage his jump pack and leap down to his warriors’ side. Then he saw the supine figure of a woman, restrained at wrists and ankles, her wide eyes staring.
“There you are,” Shrike whispered. “Malya L’nor…”
The woman screamed something. At first he could not discern her words over the skirling of the daemon prince’s blasphemous choir and stray bolt-rounds whipping all around. He concentrated, filtering out everything but her voice.
“The vial!” she screamed. “Don’t let him…”
Shrike’s mind raced as he attempted to decipher her screamed warning. What vial?
Then he saw it. Voldorius held a small container in one clawed hand, brandishing it before his prisoner, taunting her with the knowledge of her impending death. The container shone with the purest silver light, and as the daemon prince raised it high the tone of his followers’ chanting shifted, becoming yet more discordant. Shrike’s ears felt as though they were bleeding under the sonic assault.
That vial could contain only one thing. The remains of the Bloodtide; the sole reason Shrike had come to Quintus, regardless of what he had told Kor’sarro about hunting for the daemon prince. And Malya L’nor had yet to be infected…
Shrike brought his jump pack screaming to life and steeled himself for the leap. He would end the dark ritual that was about to culminate in the death of the woman spread-eagled on the surgical table far below, and finish the Bloodtide, once and for all.
Scout-Sergeant Kholka stalked around the metres-tall plinth, gritting his teeth against the cacophony of the choir. The wailing dirge was so discordant that it drowned out even the sounds of battle and gunfire that had seemed so loud, and so alien in such a holy place, but a moment before.
Pressing his back against the plinth, Kholka leaned around to steal a glimpse of what was occurring in front of the statue. What he saw brought a feral snarl to his lips.
Kholka saw the silver light shining from the container grasped in the talons of Voldorius’ left hand. His breath stuck in his throat, for it was clearly the same, silvered luminescence that had shone from the prisoner of Voldorius. The prisoner had spoken of this woman. It was not too late. The daemon prince had not yet infected the woman with the legendary power of the Bloodtide.
Ducking back behind the plinth, Kholka raised his boltgun and mouthed a silent prayer to the Emperor to guide his hand. Reaching to a pack at his belt, he withdrew a single round of rare, specialised ammunition. It was a vengeance round, its core packed with super-dense, highly volatile fissile material. Such rounds were capable of utterly destroying any target they struck, leaving little but pulp behind.
Kholka touched the round to his forehead as he completed his prayer, and then chambered it with a smooth motion. Raising the boltgun, he squinted into its sights, before edging slowly out from behind the plinth once more.
Kholka’s world became a green-tinged circle at the end of a black tunnel, a crosshair at its centre and targeting data scrolling across its edges. The crosshair passed across the dark form of Voldorius, and came to rest upon the temple of the woman restrained upon the surgical table.
Forcing his breath to still so that he might deliver the merciful killing blow with the utmost efficiency, Kholka saw that the woman’s mouth was moving and her wide eyes were fixed on something far above her. He closed his gloved finger upon the boltgun’s trigger, and offered up one final, brief prayer to the primarch.
“The blood of martyrs,” Kholka breathed as his finger tightened on the trigger, “is the seed of—”
And then he heard the woman shout “Raven Guard”, and he blinked, knowing in that instant that he must not take the shot. The view through the sights went momentarily black as the massive form of the daemon prince moved across it, and then Kholka was almost blinded as it burst into shining, silver light.
As the sights adjusted and Kholka blinked his vision clear, he saw that the crosshair was settled upon the wrist of Voldorius’ clawed hand. In that hand was held the luminescent vessel. Kholka made his decision, and squeezed the trigger.
The daemon prince’s wrist exploded as the fissile material inside the vengeance round detonated.
The vial fell to the stone floor, and shattered in an explosion of silver radiance.
It was as if a geyser of mercury had erupted from the point on the ground where the vial had smashed. The metallic fluid fountained upwards a dozen and more metres into the air, and then crashed down to spread out across the stone floor in front of the altar.
In that instant, the crimson-robed tech-adepts flung themselves clear and were gone. A thousand black-robed choristers recoiled backwards, their arms flung high in terror as their chanting turned to a cacophony of terrified wailing.
Voldorius spread his black wings wide and let forth such a bellow of rage and denial that fully half of the choristers died where they knelt. Vile, bat-winged things dropped from the vaults, striking the stone
floor of the cathedral with a wet crack.
Kholka pushed himself back behind the plinth, dropping his boltgun and clamping his hands across his ears. The force of Voldorius’ rage was such that every being in the cathedral was assaulted by a soul-wrenching tsunami that swept many away before it, leaving scores of gibbering husks strewn around the altar.
Then Kholka heard a sound that brought with it a surge of hope and pride. He lowered his hands from his ears and heard it clearly. The sound was Kor’sarro Khan, giving voice to the savage war cries of the Chogoran steppes. He was near, and to Kholka’s ears, the Master of the Hunt was very angry indeed.
With a final, savage thrust of his blade, Kor’sarro was standing at the base of the wide stair leading up to the altar. A trail of enemy dead stretched half a kilometre behind him along the length of the nave, but for every Alpha Legionnaire that had died by his hand, one of his own warriors had fallen to the foe.
Kor’sarro paused as he placed his foot upon the lowest stair. His warriors were still embroiled in the seething battle and many had died so he might reach the steps. He would face Voldorius alone.
A single shot rang out from the top of the stair. Almost instantly, a brilliant burst of silver light erupted at the summit, followed by the sight of a fountain of metallic fluid climbing high into the air, before crashing downwards.
Then the roar started up. Kor’sarro knew beyond doubt that the deafening bellow, as of every fell being that lurks in the warp roaring its hatred of mankind as one, came from Voldorius. For a moment, his mind was cast back to the battle atop the central spire of the promethium facility on Cernis IV. How had he ever taken that mutant construct for Voldorius? The sound emanating from the unseen altar at the top of the stair could never have been voiced by anything other than a daemon.
As a man leaning into the wind to brace himself against its force, Kor’sarro climbed the stairs to the altar, one step at a time. His every movement felt as if he fought against a raging torrent of the stuff of the warp made real.
Scores of the enemy were being cut down by the force of Voldorius’ rage. Black-robed choristers were flung backwards, their bodies convulsing as they were propelled through the air.
With a final heave, Kor’sarro set foot upon the last step. His archenemy reared in front of him. He roared a challenge of his own, a savage war cry to stir the heart of any Chogoran and scatter his enemies to the winds.
Voldorius had one arm held high, a torrent of black blood gushing forth to stain the blue-green of his baroque armour. The daemon had been dealt a grievous wound, one that might render him weakened. Kor’sarro raised Moonfang high as he stepped out onto the platform in the shadow of the towering statue of the Emperor Triumphant.
The rage-fuelled bellowing of Voldorius ceased.
The cathedral was plunged into silence.
A knot of bone grew from the stump of the daemon’s wrist, and in a moment the bone was sheathed in whipcord muscle and wrapped in pulsating arteries. From the mass, talon claws took shape, and in moments, the claw was regrown.
Voldorius flexed his new claw, and looked down at Kor’sarro. “You cannot kill me, scarred one.”
“We’ll see…” replied Kor’sarro as he took another step forwards.
“Don’t move!” a female voice cut through the air. Kor’sarro froze, and looked around to see a woman restrained upon a surgical table, her head raised and looking directly at him. “The floor!”
The entire surface of the area atop the stairs was covered in silver, mercury-like fluid.
“Don’t let it touch you!” the woman screamed.
The fluid was moving, its surface rippling, yet it was not flowing according to the normal rules that governed such things. Instead of flowing down the steps, the fluid appeared to be moving as if it were exploring its immediate surroundings, questing for something…
“Enough,” Voldorius bellowed. “If you shall not serve,” the daemon prince spat towards the woman, “then all shall be consumed by the Bloodtide!”
Sergeant Kholka leaned around the edge of the plinth as Kor’sarro mounted the altar platform. The raw stuff of the Bloodtide, which Voldorius had intended to somehow transplant into the woman, was seething across the stone floor between the daemon and the khan. Kor’sarro would not be able to face Voldorius without being exposed to the risk that the raw Bloodtide might somehow infect him, as Voldorius had intended to infect the woman. Kholka would not allow that to happen.
As Kholka ducked back behind the plinth, Meleriex and the other two Raven Guard warriors emerged from the doorway. “Brother Rydulon,” he called. “Your flamer!”
“All but spent,” the Space Marine called back. The fuel had been expended when the three Raven Guard warriors had enacted the destruction of the prisoner.
“Give it to me,” Kholka replied.
The Raven Guard cast the flamer through the air towards Kholka, who caught it one-handed. Checking the weapon’s ammunition readout, he saw that Brother Rydulon was correct—the fuel canister would yield no more than a single burst.
Bracing the weapon in both hands, Kholka emerged from the shadow of the plinth. He flicked the switch and activated the pilot light. As the blue flame sparked to life, he pointed the weapon towards the lake of silver fluid which was even now questing towards Kor’sarro’s feet.
Mouthing a prayer that the weapon would have sufficient fuel to burn the stuff of the Bloodtide, Kholka squeezed down hard on the trigger.
The fuel leapt from the weapon’s nozzle and ignited as it passed through the pilot flame. A searing arc of chemical death lanced outwards and blasted the silver lake.
The instant the fire touched the liquid, the entire surface of the platform erupted into flame. A great scream went up, as if a million and more voices were simultaneously giving voice to the pain and suffering of ten thousand years.
Voldorius staggered back as silver flames leapt twenty metres into the air and crashed down upon Sergeant Kholka, engulfing his world in cold fire. The raging inferno seethed and writhed as the purifying flames consumed the raw stuff of the Bloodtide. The last sight the old veteran saw was his khan, as proud and glorious as the greatest of heroes of the epics of Chogoris, standing opposite the daemon prince.
Kor’sarro shielded his face from the silver flames, but he refused to retreat. He was here, and so too was Voldorius. Only one of them, he vowed, would leave.
After a moment the leaping flames had died down, ghostly wisps of unnatural fire licking across the stone floor. An explosion sounded nearby as the flames reached one of the tech-adepts’ machines. Though the central conflagration was quieting, smaller, secondary fires were being touched off all around.
“It is ended,” Kor’sarro growled. “I am come for your head.”
Lord Voldorius studied Kor’sarro’s face, his head cocked as if he were listening to something that no mortal could possibly hear. Then the daemon shook his head and snapped his mighty black wings.
“I have not failed,” Voldorius suddenly roared, drawing his huge black sword. “Not if your broken body is cast before me!”
“He has failed!” came the voice of the woman on the surgical table. “The Bloodtide is destroyed…” her voice trailed out with a note of madness.
Voldorius turned to face the woman, and took a step towards her, his sword raised.
“The Bloodtide?” Kor’sarro repeated. All-but-forbidden lore imparted to him by the Storm Seers came to his mind. The legends of Voldorius bringing about the death of entire sectors, slaughtering billions in a single night…
“You sought to resurrect the Bloodtide?” he spat. “No.”
Voldorius paused, flames licking around his feet. Another of the ritual machines exploded, showering the woman’s body with sparks.
“He’s failed…” the woman called, her voice now shrill with madness. “He’s failed…”
Voldorius exploded into violent motion. He raised his black sword high, shadow radiating from it as light shine
s from a lantern. He brought the huge blade down, but not upon the figure restrained on the surgical table. He brought it instead into a mighty horizontal sweep that struck the base of the statue of the Emperor Triumphant with a titanic impact.
Stone exploded in every direction and a crack cut across the statue’s base. Voldorius turned on Kor’sarro and raised his blade above his head to strike the White Scar down.
Kor’sarro raised Moonfang as he moved to avoid the worst of the blow. The sacred blade turned the daemon’s strike, though only barely, the black sword scything the air scant millimetres from Kor’sarro’s face.
The black blade struck the stone floor, jagged cracks spreading out from the impact. The entire platform shook, forcing the combatants to brace their feet.
Kor’sarro saw his opportunity, and took it. He lunged inside the daemon’s reach and put every ounce of his strength into a mighty upwards thrust.
Moonfang sank into the daemon’s midriff, a flood of black ichor spilling out around its grip and staining Kor’sarro’s armour. He twisted the blade savagely, then withdrew it, leaping back, raising the sword high and preparing to strike the deathblow.
The entire cathedral shook as the sound of tortured stone filled the air.
Kor’sarro made ready to strike again, but the deep wound he had just inflicted was healing before his very eyes. The bestial face of the daemon prince was split by a leering grin of triumph.
“You cannot slay me, scarred one!” Voldorius bellowed over the ever-increasing sound of crumbling rock.
Kor’sarro drew breath to reply, but his words stuck in his throat. The towering stature of the Emperor Triumphant was collapsing downwards in a shower of masonry.
“Maybe I cannot,” Kor’sarro growled, “but there are higher powers than me…”
03 - Hunt for Voldorius Page 30
